This clubhouse is incredibly clean. There’s a pool table on the main floor, impressively painted in the club’s black and gold, and a half dozen arcade games against one wall. There’s also a massive stainless-steel fridge, and lots of framed photos of bikers on the walls. It doesn’t have the frat-house feel of the Spartans’ clubhouse, and it’s miles ahead of Trollop’s barn and the Annihilators’ dump in downtown St. Thomas. The prospect steps back as someone else takes charge of things.
“So you want to see Tom?”
The person speaking is about forty-five and has clearly spent time in a weight room. He has a shaved head and a goatee and looks like the kind of guy who says things like, “Are you gonna biker up or lie there and bleed?”
“Yes. It’s about my brother.”
He doesn’t seem to want to hear any details, just hands me a piece of cardboard torn from a cigarette box. On it is a phone number.
“Call this,” he says.
I get out my phone and do as he says.
To my surprise, Tom picks up at the other end. I recognize his voice from our introduction at Trollop’s.
He doesn’t ask how I got the number. Clearly, someone he trusts trusts me.
“Have you eaten yet?” Tom asks.
I tell him I could use another meal.
“Meet me at Jordan’s Diner, down McDougall Street from the clubhouse. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
And then he hangs up.
I’m driven back down the hill, and as I’m getting into the Cruze, I see Baker the Undertaker pulling up in a Hummer. He sees me but doesn’t stop to talk. That’s fine with me. The less I have to do with him the better.
Chapter
39
The diner Tom’s directed me to is kind of folksy and charming, specializing in coffee and comfort food, but there’s definitely an edge to it. Near the front door is a bulletin board bearing pictures of trucks and motorcycles for sale, and there’s a nice selection of Western belt buckles by the cash register. It’s the sort of establishment where the serving staff don’t suffer from a lack of confidence, and I’m guessing no one would be surprised to hear that the cooks learned their trade in a prison somewhere.
I pick a booth by the window so I can see the parking lot. In a few minutes, a white Ford truck pulls up. As it gets closer, I can see a rabbit’s foot hanging from the rearview mirror.
I immediately recognize the driver. When I saw Tom McCrae at the party, I thought he looked like he could be a good fullback, if he ever got in shape. His shoulders are massive but he also has a sizable paunch.
Once he gets to my table, he reaches out to shake my hand biker-style, our two thumbs interlocked, just like the first time we met, and gives me a friendly pat on the shoulder with his other hand.
“I’m a popular guy these days,” he says.
“How do you mean?”
“Heard another guy from Ontario is in town asking about me. Guy with the fancy cowboy boots.”
“Carlito?”
“That’s him. I don’t answer a lot of the calls I get but you’re Jamie’s brother and that’s good enough for me.”
I don’t push him. I just want the photo of Jamie. He can sort out the rest of the drama himself.
“You came all this way to see me?” As he speaks, he nods in the direction of a nearby waiter, signaling that we’d like to order. My stomach growls. Butterflies or not, I guess I’m hungry.
“I need to help my brother. I’m sure you’ve heard what’s going on.”
He nods, and the expression on his face suggests genuine concern. But then again, I’m tired and maybe he’s just a good actor. To be honest, I’m having trouble trusting anyone these days.
“He’s super-proud of you. Says you work out a lot. Hard.”
“As much as I can.”
“I like the gym too.”
On one of his pumped-up arms is an expensive-looking gold watch engraved with the Popeyes crest.
“Not enough to just work out,” Tom adds. “Have to work out smart.”
“I do,” I say.
“If you ever want a little something, I can get it to you,” Tom says.
I’m guessing he’s talking about steroids, or maybe human growth hormones. I’ve stayed away from that stuff so far, and plan on keeping it that way.
“Thanks, but I’m okay.”
The waitress comes by and pours us both a coffee. As we order our omelets, I’m aware that McCrae’s eyes are following everyone coming into and leaving the place.
“Did the cops question you?” Tom asks me.
“Yeah. I was in the station for a bit. They asked where I was that night. How I knew Trent.”
“And?”
“I told the truth but I didn’t say much. I wasn’t with Jamie around the time it happened. I didn’t know Trent except to say ‘hi.’”
“They didn’t go hard on you?”
“No. One of the cops was the father of a kid I play football with. He must know I’m not in the club. I go to the occasional party but that’s it.”
“Have the cops said anything else about Jamie’s charges? Released any details about what they suspect?”
“They said Trent was killed on the night you were hanging out with Jamie.”
“How did you know about that?” he snaps.
For the first time since we’ve sat down, Tom seems less than friendly, angry even. I don’t know what to make of his tone, and I’m too tired to give it much more thought. If I want his help, I have to be honest with him.
“Ripper.”
Now he smiles. “How’s Ripper doing? Getting better?”
So he knows about the attack.
“Getting better. Not quickly, but getting better.”
Tom drinks his coffee in silence. If he has a theory about why Ripper was targeted, he’s not volunteering to share it with me.
Time to get to my point. “Ripper told me you and Jamie were together that night,” I begin, wondering how to say what I need to say next. I don’t even know what I’m asking for, just that Tom’s my only hope. “I know you can’t say too much about what you were doing, and I don’t want to get you in trouble with anyone . . .” I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. Did I actually just say “get you in trouble”? This isn’t some schoolyard fight, and we’re not six-year-olds. I give my head a small shake, trying to dislodge the cobwebs so I can focus. “I guess I’m just wondering if you know anything that might help. Or if you’d be willing to tell the cops that you were with him, and that he couldn’t have done what they think he did to Trent.” A deep breath, and then I add: “Ripper told me that you and Jamie took a photo, with the big-screen TV and the Argos game in the background. That the picture showed the score right after the game.”
“I wanted to be able to tease Jamie about it,” he says, warming to the memory. “Easiest fifty bucks I ever made.”
“Can I see it? It could be all it takes to get Jamie freed. Could you . . . ?”
“Happy to help for Jamie. My phone’s in my truck. I’ll be back in a second.”
“Want me to go out with you?”
“Finish your coffee. Don’t want them clearing out our food. I hate it when they take away the plate before I’m finished.”
“I’ll guard it with my life.”
He jumps to his feet, showing off that he’s a man of action, I guess. As Tom heads for the door, I look around for cops. We aren’t doing anything illegal, but somehow I’m nervous anyway.
This has been so easy. I’ve been dealing with drama for so long now that I’m not sure how to take the fact that it’s almost over. In a minute, Tom’s going to walk through that door and serve up the evidence that can clear my brother’s name, all as I’m sitting here eating comfort food.
BOOM!
The noi
se—a massive, solid wall of sound—comes from out in the parking lot.
The waitress lets out a scream.
Outside, a woman is shrieking hysterically.
There’s a cloud of smoke coming from the area where McCrae’s truck is parked. I dart out the door and am running toward his vehicle when I see something lying on the pavement near the mangled front end of the truck. It’s a cell phone, crushed and burned almost beyond recognition. And there’s something else a few feet away. It’s a flashy gold watch . . . attached to a human hand.
Chapter
40
That bloody hand . . . that watch. The sound of the explosion. I can’t get any of it out of my head during the long drive home. We had just been talking . . . Now Tom’s dead and Jamie . . . Jamie may be heading off to prison for a long, long time.
Is this my fault?
Did the Popeyes use me to set up Tom? They gave me his number. He mentioned not trusting phone calls. He was an obstacle to the Popeyes’ plans to expand into St. Thomas, and maybe someone made this clear to the club’s higher-ups. Carlito? Some brotherhood.
If I’d gone out to the truck with him, I’d probably be dead too.
I check my messages at a rest stop an hour or so down the highway and see a text from Brenda and another from Jake.
Things good? Brenda has asked.
Hearing from her is great—especially now—but it’s unsettling too, given what’s happened, and what’s still happening. How am I supposed to answer? I wonder if she sends Carlito messages asking after his well-being. I know that she doesn’t owe me anything, and we haven’t made each other any promises. Hell, we’ve barely spent any time together. But still . . .
On my way home, I reply. Then I add a happy face.
For the first time since the night of Jamie’s arrest, I’m really scared. An hour or so ago I thought I was in control—that I was winning. Now Tom McCrae is dead and it was me who drew him out into a public place where he’d be vulnerable. And so far, all the violence—Trent, Ripper, the weird incident at the gym—has gone unpunished. This stuff is for real.
And I don’t even have the photo. This trip has been a massive failure.
Glad you’re safe, Brenda replies.
I almost laugh out loud. Her concern is nice, but safe feels like the farthest thing from what I am. I consider asking her about Carlito, but I don’t want to blow the mood—or give anything away—by bringing up his name.
Thanks. See you soon.
I don’t know much about women, but Jamie has told me more than once that sometimes shutting up is the best way to go. I add another happy face before sending the message, then look at Jake’s text.
How have you been? he asked.
Complicated. Been out of town, I text back.
Missed you at the gym, he replies immediately.
An image of being at the gym—of working out with nothing but football on my mind—rushes into my head. For a moment, it’s all I can think about. I want to be there so badly that I can feel the ache in my gut. I want to go back to a time when the biggest worry I had was whether or not I was going to get a scholarship so I could run around on a football field. To a time when Jake and I were in grade nine, watching Ghostbusters at his place and munching on popcorn. To a time before Trent was killed and Jamie was arrested and I was hanging out with guys who get blown up. I want to go back to the barbecue and dance with Brenda, and forget about everything that’s happened since. Besides, it’s sad to think of Jake at the gym alone. Who would listen to his jokes?
Let me know if I can help, he writes next.
I know he means it.
When I get back to town, I’ll tell him face to face about Tom and the bomb and the hand and the watch, though I might stop short of admitting that I’m worried Tom’s murder was partly my fault. And I probably won’t tell him how much he means to me, but I hope he senses that.
I’m about to get back on the road when a text arrives from Elaine, Jamie’s lawyer. She tells me to be in court first thing Monday morning, and that my mother needs to be there too. Just as well I never told her about my road trip, and it’s lucky I’ll be back in St. Thomas in time.
Be there, she has written. Seriously.
Chapter
41
I can’t remember the last time I saw Jamie so nervous. He’s actually sweating as he talks with Elaine at their table near the front of the courtroom. When the bailiff instructs everyone to rise, they both stand up. Jamie rocks from side to side for a few moments, then takes a deep breath and stands perfectly still.
It’s a small courtroom and the only journalist there is Julie, a reporter from the Sun-Sentinel who I barely know. She gives me a little nod, as if she knows something big is about to happen.
“Bill said I should be here,” she says, “but I don’t know what to expect.”
Bill does have his sources.
Mom picks up on the tension. She’s sitting beside me in the front row of the gallery, dressed very properly in a skirt and a jacket I’ve only seen her wear at funerals. She’s trying hard, which counts for something, I guess. She’s digging her fingernails into my forearm, which actually hurts a bit, but I don’t have the heart to tell her to stop. Even though I’ve been back at home, we haven’t cleared the air about Carlito. It will have to wait. I’m not about to abandon her now.
Elaine walks over to the prosecutor and they lean toward each other, talking quietly so no one else can hear. Then she nods her head, smiles, and steps back to the defendant’s table and Jamie.
The prosecutor clears his throat and addresses the judge directly.
“Your Honor, the prosecution wishes to drop the charges against the defendant, Jamie Williams.”
Mom gasps then starts to shake. Her fingernails are threatening to break my skin now, but I don’t care.
“On what grounds?”
“New evidence, Your Honor.”
It’s such a short, sweet statement.
I feel like I could fall off my seat.
Mom’s crying huge gasping sobs of relief. Jamie is blinking a little, but he’s trying to look cool. He turns and smiles at me, holding my gaze for a few long moments. There are tears in his eyes and I can see that he’s trembling.
Elaine shakes his hand and gives him a pat on the shoulder.
It’s like I’m dreaming.
“Mr. Williams, you are free to go,” the judge says.
The whole scene has taken less than ten minutes.
“You couldn’t have told us in advance?” I say to Elaine.
I’m joking, but not really.
“You never know until it actually happens,” she replies. She looks a bit overwhelmed herself. Then she gives me a hug, which catches me off guard.
“Congratulations!” she says. “You did it!”
“Did what?”
I’m not being sarcastic.
I didn’t get anything from Tom that could clear Jamie’s name, and I might actually have gotten him killed. What exactly did I do right?
“None of this would have happened without you,” Elaine insists.
Mom looks proud and hugs me too. Maybe she thinks I’m being modest. Stunned is more like it.
“The Stingray idea,” Elaine says when she realizes I’m not playing dumb, and that I really don’t have a clue what she means. “I talked about it with the prosecutor. He’s not a bad guy. We’ve done cases together before. He got the police to check into it. Jamie’s phone was picked up in Guelph by the Stingrays at the time of Trent’s death. Some of his conversations had even been transcribed. There’s some talk about him and a friend watching the football game on TV in Guelph the night of the murder.”
“The prosecution caved that quickly?”
“They appreciated the heads-up. It would have been embarrassing for them if this h
ad gone to court. Jamie was nowhere near St. Thomas at the time of the murder and the Stingray records prove it. Citizens’ rights groups and the news media would have eaten them alive and there could even have been a lawsuit. This way it goes away quietly until they get the right guy.”
The prosecutor reaches out to shake Jamie’s hand as we’re talking. To my relief, Jamie returns the gesture. He still has the black eye and could easily put one on the prosecutor, if he wanted. Maybe he has grown up a little in jail.
“Smart brother you have there,” the prosecutor says to Jamie. “He’ll do something after football.”
“Don’t puff up his head,” Jamie says with just a hint of a stutter. “His helmet is tight enough already.”
Everyone’s smiling, except for Baker the Undertaker, who I’ve noticed is lurking in the back of the courtroom. I’m not sure when he arrived and wonder how he even heard about the hearing. He leaves without talking to us.
We’re walking out to the Cruze when my phone rings. It’s the city editor at the Sun-Sentinel.
“I was just talking with Julie,” he says. “She filled me in. Congratulations.”
I’m still in a happy fog.
“Your job’s ready when you are,” he continues.
“Can I get back to you in a couple of days?” I feel like I need time to absorb everything that’s happened.
He sounds a little surprised, but says it’s fine.
And that’s that. Jamie’s a free man and I’m officially un-fired.
Chapter
42
The diner by the tattoo shop is where Jamie and I have our brothers-only celebration the next morning. Pancakes and sausages and plenty of syrup for Jamie and a Western omelet for me.
I don’t tell Jamie about seeing Carlito at our house. Why ruin a great day? I also don’t want Jamie charged with another murder, one he’d clearly be guilty of. Just joking, sort of.
Jamie treats me to breakfast. He owes me and we both know it.
“Why were you arguing with Trent that night? I know you wanted him to quit cooking, but why did things get so hot?” I’ve earned the right to know.
The Biker's Brother Page 15
